


what happens to the dream?

by starry_kenma



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, actually kinda proud, daryl deserves happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 18:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14314587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starry_kenma/pseuds/starry_kenma
Summary: based a few months after the war, paul rovia and daryl dixon find allies in the broken aftermath.@dixonspride on instagram and tumblr!





	what happens to the dream?

**Author's Note:**

> total credit to @youremytpayne on instagram for the inspiration! i've been in a horrible writing block for Literal Years so thank you for helping me out of it ;)
> 
> i listened to 'alright' by keaton henson on repeat while writing this, and i highly recommend him! this artist is so beautiful and the song fits desus well

As the sun fell below the skyline, the Hilltop held its breath. The ambiance of the day settled, eased. The farmers stuck their pitchforks and shovels into the ground, wiped their brows and looked toward the brilliant colours of the sky. Supply groups rolled through the gates, welcomed by their families and warm smiles. Aaron slipped out of his blue pick-up, already kneeling as Gracie and Judith toddled over to him. Rick and Maggie emerged from Barrington House with the rebuild team following close behind, moving to meet their returning friends.

The Hilltop buzzed for mere moments – it was his favourite time of the day.

The war had hurt. The war had taken lives and destroyed too many more. The war had been red with anger, with blood, with desperation and hope. This was his favourite time of the day because Paul Rovia could look upon his family, illuminated by the golden warmth of the sun and their bright eyes. He would sit in the open door of his trailer and watch. Smiles, children, tight hugs, prayers, relieved glances, guns and knives being slipped into their belts as they reunite. He didn’t have this for himself. He was content with others having this sort of happiness, this sort of easiness of the hopeful.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Paul had been purely focused on the Hilltop’s mass, drowsy in the sunset, but he still recognized the voice without needing to look. “Good run?”

Daryl grunted, following Paul’s gaze to their people. “Found an old farmer’s barn. Stock full of shit. Cans, horse feed, grain.”

“That’s good.”

That was it.

Daryl Dixon was a mysterious man. He was quiet and loud, light and dark all at the same time. He was made of soft looks and easy smiles with Judith, but Paul had also seen him kill a room full of men without batting an eye. He was a curious creature of man, but he didn’t allow anyone close enough to discover more. Paul had tried to attempt such a thing but after the war, Daryl had shattered into a million fragile pieces. He had been holding himself together for too long. He collapsed inward. Pushed everyone away. Nobody got through to him. Nobody could convince him to care for himself anymore.

The worst night was his disappearance. Carol didn’t find him in his tent. They didn’t find him at the Hilltop. Search parties were sent out.

Paul found him.

He sat with him throughout the night.

The only words said were uttered by Paul: “I’m here.”

When dawn arrived, they stood and drove back to the Hilltop.

After three long months of destruction and thunderstorms, Daryl glued himself back together. Broken but functional. He began to eat regularly, started to speak to Rick and Carol more often. He joined the supply runs with their gentle encouragement, eventually leading them with Aaron and Tara. He visited the graves and kneeled for an hour, head bowed. It was slow but it was progress nonetheless.

There was a comforting solidarity between Daryl and Paul after that night. It could be seen through the shared looks across the room, the constant checking up, the silent conversations. But, that was all. They would greet, assess and say goodbye. That was all. They deserved more.

When Daryl turned to leave, Paul cleared his throat. “You wanna come in?”

The other man met his eyes sharply, narrowing his gaze. He could see the brusque retort on his tongue, ready to shut the invitation down. Instead, there was a quiet acceptance and a non-committal shrug.

Paul stood, nimbly backing into his trailer. He bustled toward his small kitchen, straightening the round table as he passed. “Sorry about the mess. After…After Sasha and Maggie moved out, I haven’t been mindful about throwing shit around.” He shifted a few jumbled objects into the sink, tidying without concentrating. There was a wrapped apple pie, presented to him by Enid yesterday. He picked it up, turning to face Daryl.

“Pie?”

“I shouldn’t be here.” Daryl stood, framed in the doorway. His grip was tight on the crossbow strap across his shoulder, eyes darting around the trailer.

“Hey.” Paul said, his voice rough. “Hey.”

Daryl’s grip tightened.

“You don’t have to deal with everything alone.”

Daryl looked at him.

Paul looked back.

He shifted the apple pie in his hands. “Here’s something I prepared earlier. Halves?”

 

\--

 

They lost track of time. It became meaningless as it dissolved, slipping through their fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass. It shaped conversation, from shortly discussing rebuilding plans for Alexandria to deeply talking about themselves. Paul leaned against the couch and Daryl leaned against his bed and they talked. In the darkness, it was too easy to tell the other about things they had never spoken of before. It was too easy and they liked it.

“Tell me a secret.” Daryl had asked abruptly.

“What kind of secret?”

“Any kind.”

_There is light in your eyes and dark in your soul, and I would not change a thing about you for all the treasures in the universe. Your very existence is a paradox, a contradiction I could spend centuries studying without a thought to understanding._

Paul shook his head. “I don’t have any secrets.”

“Liar. Everyone has secrets.”

_You have haunted my thoughts and my dreams since the moment I laid eyes on you. I have memorized the slant of your brow and the wave of your hair, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. I would know you blind, deaf, numb, in this world or any other._

“Alright.” Paul relented. “Here’s a secret: I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

_Eternity. Oblivion. Crowded rooms and authority figures and being alone too long and you. I’m terrified of you because you have the power to destroy me and you don’t know it. You have no idea. I’m less afraid of dying that I am afraid of losing you and that scares me too._

“Spiders.”

Paul could hear Daryl’s smile in the darkness. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No, really. It’s the legs, I think. And the eyes.”

The trailer was quiet.

“Tell me another one.”

The night continued, beautifully alive. Their conversations were made of a sort of ferocious, quiet beauty, the sort that wouldn’t let you admire it. The sort of beauty that always hurt. Conversations about their losses, not only in the war but in their entire lives. Paul talked about his shared housing arrangement in Virginia, about the countless years of homophobia and therapy, about the unknown feeling of home until he found the Hilltop. Daryl told him about the abuse he copped when he was young, about his brother, about the utter numbness he feels sometimes. They danced on the knife’s edge between awareness and sleep for hours.

They stayed on the topic of home for a long time.

Daryl didn’t call his childhood house a home. He had wandered with his brother without having solid shelter for years. The closet thing to a true home was the feeling of unity between the survivors, he explained. Paul softened, agreeing. The survivors kept hope in his heart.

“When the dreamer dies, what happens to the dream?”

Daryl grunted. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“When we go, when we die,” Paul answered lightly. “Our home won’t die. Our dream won’t die. The survivors will keep surviving. Alexandria will be rebuilt, and the Hilltop will expand, and our communities will keep trading. People will die of old age and children will be born. There will be peace. Happiness. That’s the dream. We are the dreamers.”

“Shit, I’m inspired.”

“Shut up.”

The two shared a short laugh before lapsing into comfortable silence. Paul yawned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You should sleep.” Daryl said, quietly. “It’s late.”

“ _We_ should sleep.” Paul replied, eyeing Daryl through the thick darkness. “I’ll take the couch.”

“I’ll jus' go back to my tent.”

“We both know you can’t sleep properly in a tent. C’mon, take the bed. Just for tonight.”

A drawn-out moment had Paul doubting Daryl would stay. Again, the other man surprised him in a joyous and unexpected way.

“If you snore, I’m going to cut your tongue out while you sleep.”

Paul laughed.

 

\--

 

Sunrise was his least favourite moment of the day. He would sit in his trailer doorway and watch. People departed from the Hilltop as the sun rose above the skyline. They left their families with promise of return and hopeful eyes and hugs lasting a moment longer than usual. He watched as Aaron slipped into his blue pick-up, as Tara hugged Rosita tightly before she left, as Enid waved goodbye to Maggie on the porch. Normally, Paul distanced himself from this separation but this morning, he had woken up and realized Daryl was still sleeping soundly in his bed. He let him sleep, leaving an apple and a note by the bedside, before approaching the dirt driveway.

They deserved more.

The dream carries on.

**Author's Note:**

> hope ya'll are sobbing


End file.
